The Last To Burn
by MoonyXmadness
Summary: Cohen wants all of his doubters to burn, and he wants Jack to be the one to end his four favourites. M for violence, chitlens.


BIOSHOCK(belongs to 2kgames) GOD I love bioshock hnnnnnggg so here's a little fic about Sander Cohen's disciples, because there should be SO MUCH MORE writings about them.

Enjoy 3

"He thinks he's _so_ great. Bu'chu know wha' I think?" A dark haired man in his late 20's sat at the bar a freshly opened bottle of Merlot hanging limply in his hand as he slurred his rant to the empty stool beside him. "I think he's a fuck'n nut! Psssh...with tha'..._shit_ he wrot-Wha?" The bottle in his hand shattered as a foreign bullet pierced the glass, cutting his rant short.

Hector Rodriguez, the last of four disciples, snapped his head up causing the brightly coloured bird mask to fall back into place, covering the young mans face. On the stage an unfamiliar man stood, reloading the shot gun in his hands before aiming it back at Hector. He cursed, pushing off the bar and stumbling away from the stool, just barely remembering to grab the box of Molotov's he had collected to protect himself from renegade splicers.

He let out a stream of curses as another bullet whizzed by his ear, just barely making it out the doors of Eves Garden. Hector could hear the heavy foot steps of his pursuer behind him, gun firing in his general direction, yet to hit it's target. The brunette fished one of the bottles from its place in the wooden box, clumsily setting it on fire as he struggled to keep his legs working through his alcohol clouded mind. He threw it blindly over his shoulder, satisfied when he heard a strangled cry and the foot steps behind him falter.

Hector wasn't sure where he was going, and didn't care as long as he kept just out of range from the madman with the gun. Cohen must have sent the guy after him, but it didn't matter, either way the man aimed to kill. The brunette was shaken from his thoughts as a potted plant he was coming up to burst into flames. Hector shouted, reeling back a few steps.

Bad choice.

The man fired, but it was hasty and barely nicked his shoulder. Hector took off again throwing another Molotov behind himself before grabbing his now throbbing arm in pain, hissing out more curses.

Hector turned a sharp corner, the strange man now a good distance behind him. He had somehow made his way into Fleet Hall in his blind attempt at escape. "Back stage-" He jumped up onto the stage slowing his pace as he eyed the grand piano placed at it's center with large straps of dynamite encircling it, "wha'in th'world was Cohen doin'..."

The steady drip of liquid against the wood floor rang out in the dead silence of the auditorium as Hector walk around the piano, slowly heading towards the curtain to disappear backstage. A figure appeared in the corner of his vision, and he gasped aloud raising an already lit Molotov above his head as he turned to face them.

But the figure didn't move; it sat on the piano bench slumped over, leaning heavily against the keys. Hector placed his wooden box on the ground along with the slowly burning bottle, squinting his eyes against the harsh lights shining down on the still figure.

A small strangled whimper sounded from Hectors throat as realization dawned on his features. Gore pooled about the face of the young man hunched over the piano seeping out the place where his right eye once was.

"...Fitz..?" Hectors voice was weak in his own ears compared to the persistent dripping of blood from the ivory keys, staining the floor boards below. He took a few unsteady steps to stand beside The other man, reaching a hand out to place it lightly on his shoulder, the other hand lifting his mask to get a clear look at the red head.

Fitzpatrick's mask had been pushed off his face when he had fallen forward. His mouth slightly agape, small rivulets of crimson trialing from his chapped lips to join the mess on the floor below him. The nervous flush Hector was so accustomed to seeing tinting the other mans skin was paled and dulled to a grey tinge, all the previous colour spilling out of him with the lost blood.

The brunette moved his hand to gently touch the ginger locks, paying no mind to the deep red matting the hair, that wasn't torn away with other skull fragments or caved into the entry wound, to his scalp, "D-Damn Fitz...what kinda sick fuck'd do summin like this ta a sweet kid like you...?" the corpse didn't respond, staring hollowly with it's undamaged eye somewhere past him. Hector sighed, the trembles that shook his frame making the soft noise uneven.

Too absorbed by the sight of his fellow disciple he had failed to hear the doors slide closed, and the soft tap of shoes against the carpeted floor. The sound of a gun shot rang out in the hall, aimed perfectly from the strangers vantage point.

Hector blinked, ears ringing from the sudden noise. A frown touched his lips as he removed his hand from the corpse's head to press it gingerly against his abdomen. He looked down, watching the blood seep through the fabric of his clothing and drip from his hand. A small cough, and red dripped from his lips as well.

A second shot pierced the silence, the bullet hitting its mark once more. Tearing through the throat of the still standing disciple and sending a cascade of claret liquid to coat the already blood stained floor.

Hectors body collapsed, skull meeting the keys of the piano, and filling Fleet hall with a chorus of sharp notes as he sunk to the floor beside the long dead pianist. Choked gurgles faded with the last ringing note as the fourth and final disciple's breaths were drowned out by his own gore filling his lungs.

Jack replaced his gun with the camera, snapping a quick photo of the now dead man before turning, leaving Fleet hall to finish Cohen's masterpiece.


End file.
